


expository noises

by idaate



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, its really as fluffy as you can get with ouma being ouma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 00:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15448869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: The ideal sort of a sleep is a dreamless one, a fact that Ouma’s confirmed several times with sleep containing dreams of varying intensity. Kind or cruel, he finds it an unpleasant experience either way because he’s not in control, he’s susceptible to the worst whims of his own revolting unconscious mind, and that’s not a fate he’d wish on anyone.But ideals are just ideals, not truth, and Ouma’s truth is that there are the ghosts of hands clinging to his neck when he wakes up.-Amami helps cure Ouma's nightmares with his rainforest playlist on Spotify.





	expository noises

**Author's Note:**

> commission for @goodbyehorses25 on twitter! Thank you so much nick for commissioning me!

The ideal sort of a sleep is a dreamless one, a fact that Ouma’s confirmed several times with sleep containing dreams of varying intensity. Kind or cruel, he finds it an unpleasant experience either way because he’s not in _control,_ he’s susceptible to the worst whims of his own revolting unconscious mind, and that’s not a fate he’d wish on anyone.

Actually, maybe Momota. Depends. He’d put the prospect up for debate later.

But ideals are just ideals, not truth, and Ouma’s truth is that there are the ghosts of hands clinging to his neck when he wakes up.

People paint deep, dramatic pictures of nightmares, of how people wake up screaming and crying and babbling till someone rubs their back and calms them the _fuck_ down, thank you very much, and while Ouma is sure that that’s not necessarily a false projection, he knows he hasn’t ever experienced such an awakening.

Instead, he surfaces from his nightmares by clutching onto his sheets like they’re a lifeline, pulling them close to his frame and covering his mouth till he’s practically choking himself on the fabric. He hates lies, and though lies and unreality aren’t exactly one and the same, it’s all close enough to make his lip curl as he shakes because his stupid dumbass trashmill of a mind can’t put itself in order and tell the _difference,_ just kill it already Jesus.

He mutters under his breath while it comes out in small, shaking puffs, his hand reaching for the glass of water on his bedside table. Because it’s there. It’s surely there because why wouldn’t it be there, he put it there last night himself.

That’s what logic dictates, but his hand feels nothing but the flat surface of the various books and papers he’s got strewn about there. Ouma frowns and he sits up, turning on his phone’s flashlight after retrieving it from the pocket of his sweatpants. But all it reveals is a clock reading 03:47 and that the glass of water is very much absent from the table, and his frown deepens. He was so certain that he had—

Oh. Ouma directs the flashlight a bit to the side and finds the newfound home of the glass, water strewn out across the floor in a disgusting puddle. He sighs, but his chest is still clenched up too tightly and his throat is still constricted and he _needs_ something to drink, pronto very fast now please.

He doesn’t bother to pick up the now-empty glass as he steps into the puddle, realizes too late he’s wearing socks, and grits his teeth. He quickly peels them off and deposits them on the floor. He can deal with them tomorrow, and by he he means Saihara of course.

It isn’t a long trip from his bedroom to the kitchen, but it doesn’t help in the slightest that his phone light makes the sharehouse look like something out of a horror game. At least, it wouldn’t help if he was someone like Momota. Since he’s not Momota, the latest horror freak out there on the interwebs that everyone wanted to date could run through the door and snatch his wig and he probably would be cool with it.

Really, what he’s more scared of is waking someone up. Normally, he wouldn’t necessarily mind being caught up at nearly four in the morning, but normally his hands aren’t violently shaking back and forth like the traitorous pieces of skin they are, and there’s a limit to how far his bullshit can cover for him when his body shows the blatant opposite.

But it’s nothing big. He shouldn’t be freaking it right now. He’s just going for a glass of some good ol’ aech two oh from the kitchen and look- he was already at the refrigerator.

Ouma pockets his phone and sticks his fingers into the plastic sealing the door shut, letting the air seep out so it doesn’t scream and announce his presence when he opens it. He counts two, three, five, and pulls on the handle.

The fridge seal unsticks, plastic letting out air with a soft hiss (but still softer than it could’ve been) as the door swings open. The light spills out onto the milky tile kitchen floor, and Ouma grants himself the small respite of standing on one leg and wiggling his toes to create shadows in hopes that it’ll help stop the shaking.

It doesn’t, and Ouma has to put his foot down again when he feels like he’s about to lose his balance already.

But antics aside, his gaze rakes up and down the contents of the fridge once again and it doesn’t take long for him to locate a delicious gallon of grape juice, still three quarters full. Easily better than a glass of water.

He leans down and picks it up, unscrewing it with the fridge door propped open by the heel of his foot. The sugar (because of course he pours a couple packets into the carton the moment they’ve purchased it, to the point where it’s vaguely sickening) slides down his throat and calms down the jitters, replacing them instead with spikes of energy that flood his system and leave him feeling, well, _good_ for once.

He’ll just drink to the halfway mark, and then his throat will loosen up and he’ll feel confident enough to return to bed.

The kitchen lights flicker on. “What’re you up to at this hour, Ouma-kun?”

Ouma chokes on his juice and ends up dropping the entire carton as Amami laughs, the juice spilling everywhere and surely leaving the tile horrendously sticky. It’s an imitation of the glass on Ouma’s bedroom floor, and the two of them stare at the tragedy for a few beats of silence.

Ouma’s lower lip starts trembling. “My juice…”

Amami clicks his tongue and leans down to pick up carton. “There’s still a little left,” he says.

“Not enough.”

“I can go out and get some more tomorrow if you’re that sad about it...”

“But that isn’t _now,_ Amami-chan.” Tears start welling up in Ouma’s eyes and Amami sighs, picking up the cap as well and screwing it back on. “Amami-chan I want some more _now!”_

“Then I’ll go out now. Do you want to come with me?” Amami puts the the carton back in the fridge and shuts the door. “I think that Seven-Eleven near here sells them.”

The tears disappear. “Actuaaaaallllyyy I changed my mind!” Ouma clasps his hands together, reminiscent of Angie. “Count your blessings, Amami-chan, for God himself has decided that we should hold on to tomorrow and you don’t have to go out and purchase any jugs of grape juice this instant.”

“Oh...that’s good, then.” Amami smiles. “Thanks, God.”

“But still, jeez, you’re really a tyrant you know that?” Ouma pouts and crosses his arms over his chest, partly to hide (the now fairly subdued, but _still_ ) trembling in his hands. “Creeping up on little ol’ me at God knows what hour and scaring me out of house and home and deplenishing my juice supply like that...I really ought to call the cops on you.”

“Finally,” says Amami. “Though...uh, I think it’s a bit hypocritical for you to call me out on being up late when you were the one who woke me up, you know?”

Fuck. “Did I wake you up? It’s not super nice of Amami-chan to accuse me of doing something as dastardly as that when I wasn’t even awake in the first place.”

Amami tilts his head. “Then when did you wake up?”

“Awfully bold of you to assume that I have ever been awake in my life.” Ouma folds his hands underneath his chin and closes his eyes. “I’m actually fast asleep right now. Zee zee zee.”

“Ah, I see. Sorry if I’m in danger of waking you, then.”

“ZEE ZEE ZEE,” says Ouma, louder.

Amami takes one of his hands and Ouma’s eyes shoot open. Amami looks far too concerned and Ouma dreads the next words even before they come out of his mouth, “Ouma-kun, are you alright? You’re...shaking a little bit.”

Ouma jerks his hand away and looks at it. It sure is shaking. “Amami-chan, are your eyes broken? I’m pretty sure they’re broken because I’m not shaking.”

Amami looks at Ouma’s hands then up at Ouma’s face and then back once again. Ouma tucks his hands behind his back. “Oh, okay. I don’t know how our budget stands, but maybe I’ll look into getting a pair of glasses.” He straightens up and slips a hand into the pocket of his own sweatpants. “But, totally unrelated from that, I just thought I’d mention that whenever my sisters had bad dreams, they’d come into my bed and we’d snuggle for a bit.”

Ouma stares. “Okay.”

“And it was really nice.”

“Okay.”

“I kinda miss doing it with them.”

 _“Okay._ Cool. Interesting. Wonderful.” Ouma smacks his lips. “Those are some fun facts that you are sharing with me today Amami-chan. What do you want me to do with those facts? These nuggets, these tidbits of information?”

“Oh. Well, I was kind of wondering if you’d want to...well.” Amami gestures vaguely with his hands. “You know.”

“Snuggle with you?” Ouma blinks up owlishly at Amami, bending his knees so the height difference between the two of them can be even more exaggerated. “You know, normally I’d leap at the chance to share the same bed with my beloved Amami-chan, _buuuuut_ I think somepony’s implying that I’m just like his sisters and I might be having some bad dreams of my own.”

“Was I? I didn’t mean to do that if I was.” Amami smiles gently. “Are you having bad dreams, Ouma-kun?”

“No,” says Ouma, “and I don’t want to snuggle with stinky Amami-chan. You smell worse than Momo-chan, if that’s somehow humanly possible.” He sniffs. “Disgusting. Revolting. Atrocious. I don’t know why I associate myself with you.”

“Gee thanks,” says Amami, “but like. The offer still stands if you want to hang out. Regardless of whether you’re having bad dreams or not, y’know? I brought it up just because I had dreams on the mind, but the thought of just hanging out with you right now is...nice, y’know?”

“You said ‘y’know’ twice there,” says Ouma. “That’s kind of suspect.”

Amami smiles gently and shrugs. “I didn’t mean for that. My apologies.”

Despite himself, Ouma finds his lip curling as guilt creeps up his spine. Or maybe _guilt_ wasn’t quite the word he should be using here, but he couldn’t really find anything better fitting off the top of his head just like that.

If he refuses Amami, he’ll have to go back to his room again. Alone. And sure, that was the original plan, and it’s not like he hasn’t calmed down or is afraid of sleeping alone in the dark, but Amami’s proposition

He exhales through his nose. “Buuuuuuut since Amami-chan is being so annoying…I _guess_ I can hang out with him in his bed. And depending on how clean you are we can consider a cuddle.”

Amami’s sagged shoulders lift up. “Oh, really?”

“Yep!” says Ouma. “Now you better hurry up and get yourself to bed before I change my mind and sleep on the stairs.”

“Wouldn’t that be more of a threat for you…? I’m not the one who’d have to sleep in an unpleasant place.”

Despite their talk, Ouma finds himself inside Amami’s room and on top of his covers a bit too fast for his liking. Amami begins to wiggle under the blankets himself before looking at Ouma with a quizzical expression.

“You, uh,” he smacks his lips, “gonna...come on in? I mean, I guess it doesn’t make all that big of a difference for me, but you’re gonna be. Cold if you don’t stay underneath the covers. And that just, isn’t all that pleasant of an experience?”

“Hm,” says Ouma, “or you could be saying that to try and trap me in your bed and as a result more easily off me while I take what should have been a wonderful beauty nap but turned into a gruesome scene of tragedy.”

Amami blinks. “Or you could sleep on top.”

Ouma hums.

Amami turns over and fumbles with something on his phone before putting down on his bedside table. A few seconds later, the gentle sounds of water, frogs, and leaves begins to ring out around the room. Ouma frowns. “What’s that?”

“Ah, it’s— Uhm.” Amami laughs semi-guiltily. “I put on a rainforest ambience track to help me sleep sometimes. But if it bothers you, I can turn it off, sorry.”

“Hmmm nope!” Ouma says after a moment. “Amami-chan may listen to some laaame tunes, but I guess if this is what he likes it’s sort of okay or whatever.”

“Oh.” Amami laughs again. “Alright. Thank you, Ouma-kun.”

“You’re most graciously welcome.”

Amami finally settles down, and despite the cloth that he made sure was put between them, Ouma feels awfully close and awfully cramped and awfully trapped. He looks at Amami’s hands, and after a few moments, Amami begins to follow his gaze. “Is something wrong?” he asks.

“This is a one-time thing,” stage whispers Ouma, just to be sure, “and there’s going to be no cuddling.”

Amami pulls his hands up in defeat. “No cuddling,” he stage whispers back.

“No touching of any kind at all, actually. Who knows what sort of dirty things might go through your mind...you’re such a perv, Amami-chan!”

“No touching whatsoever,” Amami promises solemnly. “You have my absolute word.”

 

-

 

Amami’s hands are around his waist two weeks later. They’ve been around his waist before the two weeks later mark, actually, but two weeks later is when Ouma remembers saying “No touching” and then woke up the next morning with his limbs tangled amid Amami’s own, somehow under the covers despite being _sure_ that he had fallen asleep on top of them and not below.

Well, at least he woke up late and not at random intervals at night. There was no nightmare, no hands at his throat, no sick sweaty “it was just a dream” relief that only fairy tale people should have. The first time it happened Ouma didn’t really feel like it was him.

Now he’s looking at the ceiling with his hands posed in front of him in the dark and he doesn’t really feel like it was ever him. Besides him, Amami shifts in his sleep and tightens his grip. The pressure isn’t unpleasant, but it isn’t really a nice feeling either. He feels kinda sick.

Ouma reaches down and gently pries Amami’s fingers off of his waist one by one by one. It feels worse not to have them there. He pries them back on again and folds his hands over his chest. The rainforest ambience soundtrack, which had become a staple for their nightly sessions, pounds against his forehead. He feels sicker.

Was this weird? Of course it was. Wasn’t. It’s not like Sonia or Saihara had pointed anything out about it, so they didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But they could also just be trying to be polite about the whole matter and could be painfully aware of it all and gossiping with each other— _Ugh,_ Ouma hates his flatmates. Fucking loathes them. Disgusting the absolute worst.

Amami shifts again. He gets a little closer. Ouma inhales and has to count to seven like he’s in therapy or some shit jeez chill the fuck _out._

Amami mumbles something in his sleep again before he settles down and his breathing evens out again. Ouma has to keep looking at the ceiling to stop himself from doing anything stupid.

Like hugging Amami back— No, this wasn’t hugging.

It was hands-around-the-waist. Amami was hands-around-the-waist-ing Ouma, and Ouma was just wondering to himself whether or not he should-or-could do it back. It was a reasonable dilemma with a reasonable premise, and Ouma shouldn’t be stressed out about it at all because it was no big deal and Amami was totally cool with Saihara and Sonia hugging him so he’d totally be cool if Ouma put his hands around Amami’s waist. Ouma wasn’t a freak for wanting to put his hands around Amami’s waist.

Ouma felt like the biggest freak alive.

Slowly, gently, and with surgical care, Ouma places one of his hands on top of Amami’s waist. After getting no response from Amami, Ouma turns his body till he’s on his side and awkwardly tries to put his other hand under Amami. Amami sniffs in his sleep, but other than that, remains the way he had been.

It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal and he should be calm and normal about this because it is a calm and normal thing to do. Ouma breathes in and closes his eyes.

The pressure of Amami on and under his hands isn’t unpleasant, but it definitely feels...a little weird. He can’t deny that it’s something he isn’t used to, but to be fair, this normally isn’t a situation he’d ever find himself in. In fact, he doesn’t think he’s ever been in anything like this situation before, period.

The thought rubs him the wrong way more than he’d like to admit. He frowns and opens his eyes back up again.

Amami’s staring directly back at him, very much awake.

Immediately, Ouma jerks his hands back like he’s been burnt, mind racing through dozens of excuses and frustratingly coming up blank blank blank and Jesus fuck better go! Better scram!

But when he tries throwing himself out of the bed he finds himself tangled up in the bedsheets instead and _fuuuck_ this is why he wanted to sleep on _top_ of the covers, not underneath, it’s so much better on top and now he’s fumbling with his limbs and the fabric on the floor and cursing the day he ever met Amami Rantarou the absolute _bastard_ motherfucker why did he think this was a good idea why did he think that _sleeping with Amami_ let alone on _over a dozen different occasions_ was ever even a good thing to consider he’s a fucking idiot—

“—ma-kun! Ouma-kun, are you alright? I-I’m sorry if I scared you, I…” Amami pauses as Ouma finally rights himself up and glares at Amami from the floor through the darkness. “...Ouma-kun?”

“Of _coooourse_ I’m alright,” Ouma drawls. “Jeez, Amami-chan, you’re super duper immature, you know? Freaking out over something that isn’t a big deal at all...and you’re _still_ awake at this hour, just staring at me creepily as I sleep?” He snorts. “Ah, really, now...I think I’m gonna have to go back to my own room in order to hold some sort of privacy for myself, you know? In fact,” he stands himself up, bunching up the blankets in his arms, “I’m going to be taking all of these blankets with me and you’re going to be cold and alone and shivering because you don’t know how to not be a weirdo.”

Amami frowns. “That’s not very nice to say.”

“Well you’re not very nice to say,” says Ouma.

The pause between them both awkwardly lengthens as Ouma makes no move to walk through the door behind him. “You...know,” Amami says slowly, “if you don’t feel comfortable with it, we don’t have to. Put our hands around each other’s waists or anything. That doesn’t have to be a thing we have to do.”

Ouma doesn’t say anything.

“Or, if it’s something you do want to do, we can. _You_ can, you don’t have to worry that I’m going to get mad over something like this. And, also, ah.” He smiles guiltily. “Ouma-kun...if it’s alright? Could you sleep here still, at least for tonight? It’s late, and...yeah, it’d be nice.”

Ouma taps his fingers across the back of his hand and stares at the blankets in his arms. Every instinct he’s ever known is screaming at him to leave the room and _scram,_ but he can’t deny that he doesn’t really want to leave, either.

“I mean,” says Ouma, sitting down on the bed and throwing the blankets down, “if you’re going to throw so much of a fit over it, sure. Even though you’re _obviously_ just here for the blankets.”

“Yup,” says Amami as Ouma lays on top of the covers this time, “you’ve got me.”

“Hey, Amami-chan,” says Ouma.

“Mm?”

“Since you’re so desperate for contact, you can hold my hand this one time.” Ouma extends his hand in the dark. “This ONE time.”

Amami chuckles and takes Ouma’s hand. “Ah, alright. Thank you.”

Ouma snorts.

“I’m really lucky.”

“You know it, pal.”

As Amami’s fingers rub over the palm of Ouma’s hand, he looks at the ceiling and fights off the panic slowly seeping out of his chest, unchoking him. Maybe hands-around-the-waist are a little too much for him right now, but that’s alright. They’ll get there someday. Maybe in two more weeks, maybe in ten.

The way things are now, he’s perfectly content with closing his eyes and falling into a dreamless sleep with the comforting weight of Amami’s hand in his own.


End file.
